


The French Kiss

by waveofahand



Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Also there is an angel, Comments and constructive criticism welcome, Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, James Cagney sort of shows up, Kissing in Public, M/M, McLennon, McLennon Paris, My First Fanfic, Paris Honeymoon, Please be gentle, Romance, john loves paul, paul loves john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 23:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveofahand/pseuds/waveofahand
Summary: It was a guardian angel holding a lantern, lighting the way, maybe showing the way home. It seemed made for John, especially for John on his 21st birthday, which seemed like a good time to put paid to the sense John had lived with all his life – the feeling of being lost, bereft, without a real home, without a clear and welcoming path that said “this is where you belong.”Paul liked the idea of telling John he belonged somewhere, and more importantly, that he belonged to someone. "With ME", Paul had thought. "You belong where I am, because you belong to ME, and you need to know it, finally.”***My first fanfic. Yikes. This is entirely fiction. I don't own the Beatles. This never happened. I made it all up, okay?





	The French Kiss

 

**OCTOBER, 1961**

As soon as he’d seen the angel, he knew he wanted it, and that he wanted it for John.

They’d been walking about Paris on their third day in the city, stopping at all the little stalls dotting the lanes along the Seine, where John had poked around bins and tables of old books and drawings while Paul had found himself drawn to a little collection of used Catholic things – old rosaries, a damaged statue of Joan of Arc, and the sorts of holy cards and cheap geegaws he’d seen in any Catholic household in Liverpool when he was a lad.  
  
But the little angel stood out. It was piece of jewelry, a brooch or pin or whatever they were called, made out of pewter and meant to be worn. A guardian angel holding a lantern, lighting the way, maybe showing the way home. It seemed made for John, especially for John on his 21st birthday, which seemed like a good time to put paid to the sense John had lived with all his life – the feeling of being lost, bereft, without a real home, without a clear and welcoming path that said “this is where you belong.”  
  
Paul liked the idea of telling John he belonged somewhere, and more importantly, that he belonged to someone. _With me_ , Paul had thought. _You belong where I am, because you belong to me, and you need to know it, finally.”_

But it had been dear, the pin, costing more than he’d meant to spend of his scant savings. He’d slipped the gift into his pocket before John could see and then – with only a few coins remaining on which to get by for the rest of the week – Paul endured the embarrassment of offering the birthday boy a mere hamburger on his big day.  
  
He could have given him the angel then, but no, Paul had wanted to save it for tonight, their last night in Paris, and as they took one last walk through the beautiful city – the City of Light! May the angel light their paths back to Paris someday! – Paul fingered the little package in his jacket pocket, waiting for the perfect moment in this clear, chilly night to present it.

He was glad he’d waited because this time together had been something rare in both their lives and it needed a proper and memorable ending, one that acknowledged how a few days in Paris had been so transformative, had made some things so perfectly clear to both of them.

For Paul, it had been a city of challenge. He’d watched its energy, studied its arts and understood that Paris’ powerful allure was derived through a combination of its unrelenting-but-delicate beauty and its determined singularity. The English might be bulldogs, but Paris made it clear that the French didn’t care what you thought; they would be themselves, all for themselves and their moods and their modes, and you could go to hell if you didn’t like it.  
  
Paul did like it. He identified with all of that and by trip’s end he felt like he was going to carry the challenge to be like Paris within his deepest self -- that he would always be looking to prove himself beyond his looks, and show himself in all his honest strengths and weaknesses, without apologizing. He knew in coming years he would be transported back to these Parisian boulevards whenever he tasted bitter chocolate, or caught the scent of fresh bread a little sour, or spied the ruby-hue of a fine red wine, but beyond the sensory, he felt – he knew – that he  would carry Paris within his very marrow, for the rest of his life.

Because more than anything else, Paris made him realize that he was truly in love -– that whatever he and John had thought they were up to these past four years (and they’d been up to plenty), this thing between them was more than lust, or attraction, or some perverse pageant of possession and shared loss.

This was real love, and now they both knew it.

He remembered the moment he’d realized it, an intense instant in bed when they’d seemed to be dissolving into each other and John had shivered beneath him, [“Watch me, Paul,” he had pleaded](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611301), “Oh, don’t close your eyes, love, watch me come undone for you. I need you to see…” and their eyes had locked and Paul had moved over John, stirring him past the point of containment, and as John had gasped and groaned through it all Paul saw everything – a look of surrender-unto-shattering, that revealed John’s willingness to be everything or nothing, or be reborn in full -- anything! --for the sake of his lover, if only Paul would remain, would never leave him.

In that moment Paul had understood, and as he rode to his own release he tried, he really tried. It was his nature to hide a little, but as he held John’s eyes he tried to show himself, the fullness of himself, to him -- all of his love, all of his willingness to hold John’s trust, all of the ways he would never leave.

In those final thrusts he had wished he could sing it, attach his feelings to words and match them to his rhythm as he moved -- to sing his love out loud because then John would know it was true: _I am yours; I’ll keep your heart; I will never go._  
  
He wished he could scream it out -- all of the ways that he was all for John, all for his John, his own one.

It was Paris that had brought them to that point, to that terrifying, exhilarating moment of realization that they had willingly become one flesh -- Paul had never understood the concept before, that it was about more than sex, that it was about becoming one mind, one body, true soulmates.

With comprehension came a sense of responsibility to the relationship, and a sense of true consent. He was here, John was here, and he knew it, Paul just knew it: Whatever else the world might hold for them, they would never get over each other, or this moment.

If Paris had reinforced Paul’s sense of himself, had issued a challenge that felt like it would imbue every decision he made for the rest of his life, for John the city had been a lesson in giving himself away. From their first day he seemed to relax, to bring down his protective guard, inch by inch. Over the week, he had unspooled before Paul like a thread that been held too taut for too long, and was released from its tensions mere seconds before snapping. Paul watched as daily John became softer, less caustic, more willing to show his vulnerabilities and to admit his intense need for the world itself to become softer, too -- to be less severe around him -- because the world's sharpness did wound John, so.

So much more than anyone would ever know, except for Paul.

He was a romantic squish, was John. Paul watched his Lennon respond almost immediately to the pastel beauty of Paris and the contented and lazy way it regarded the world from its corners and cafes. World-watching suited John’s own nature (as did laziness) and a restless Paul sometimes wanted to sigh in protest when John would suggest yet again that they find a table and spend yet another hour doing nothing but _watching other couples._  But he resisted the urge to complain, because in those quiet moments of simply observing and being, something beautiful was happening to John. And it was all about the French, and how they kissed.

In Paris, John couldn’t get enough of [watching French couples enjoy each other](https://amoralto.tumblr.com/post/44385799383/september-12th-1980-john-talks-to-playboy-writer); he couldn’t get enough of how they declared themselves in the face of the city, leaning against each other and into each other, laying heads upon chests in contentment, touching each other with gentle finger swipes along a cheek or brow.

And the kisses! It seemed that French kissing had little do to with the throat-swabbing, tongue-sucking desperation he’d always associated with the term. As he observed, John saw it as something new – French kissing as an act of lingering, of patience, of stillness; of remaining, rather than rushing. Of staying within a minute – of _staying,_ period -- and it captivated him. Taking a seat, he would spot a couple nearby (under an umbrella, or in a doorway or a cove), and John would watch as they shared scores of little kisses and tiny little licks, soft, so soft, with mouths barely open. There was nothing rough, nothing hard, nothing sloppy about it. To witness such kisses was to be permitted into a sort of intimacy John had never seen before, something both secret and bold. Proud, like.

French couples showed John something completely different from his experiences in Liverpool, where a Northern man dared not be a public face of tenderness, or in the squalid Reeperbahn of Hamburg, where women seemed to know nothing of delicacy or grace as they permitted themselves to be pawed in public, and so crudely.

He wanted this new reality. He craved it in his life. Soft touching, soft kissing, a light touch of tongue, a caress of the cheek, soft, soft. He could have groaned aloud with his combined feelings of jealousy and curiosity – what was that like, and why had he never had that? What he and Paul had, what they did, it was precious and important, but they had never had… _that_. That much natural tenderness. That much freedom to show it!

It had John licking his lips almost continually, and touching himself all day long. He would slide his fingers along his own legs as he sipped strong coffee, or place his open hand upon his own shoulder for a gentle caress as this city opened up something in John that he had not known was locked.

In short order he was touching Paul more frequently, too, and in public – squeezing the younger man’s thigh as they sat, or finding a reason to flick something from Paul’s shoulder or to let his hand linger at the small of Paul’s back as they walked.

John watched the couples of Paris and Paul watched John watching them, and he understood, in that instinctive and natural way he had always understood so much about John, that his partner was in a state of absolute longing for something he'd never had.  
  
And so, night after night, Paul had tried to give it. To take more time, to touch more gently, to linger over lips and nipples, and those sensitive places on necks and knees. In the day he would offer a hand to John as he rose from sitting, or deliberately pull him into his shoulder as he pointed something out in the distance, as though contact was needed to help John see (as sometimes, in fact, it was). And at night he would linger over John, and linger.

And curiously, the more Paul touched him, the more he took control, the more he directed their lovemaking toward John’s obvious longings, the more John seemed to give, the more content he was to simply respond, and submit, and grow ever more compliant. John Lennon had been a hard one all his life, and now it seemed all he wanted, in Paris, was to have Paul plumb the depths of his softness in mutual discovery.

And Paul was willing to do that, was learning, in fact, that he preferred it that way -- as he preferred control wherever he could take it -- and he could never feel differently once his gentle dominance had brought them to that point, that _moment_ , when they’d shown themselves to each other so completely, and with such openness that it felt like a vow.

No, not felt; it _had_ been a vow, all unspoken except for the way they had moaned into each other’s mouths on a shared breath.

But it wasn’t enough. Paul knew it never could be, because what John wanted more than anything, was everything. He wanted to have all of this new touching, this new soft way, and to experience it as all of the other couples in France seemed to: publicly, unashamedly, with a slyly insouciant disregard for witnesses or their opinions.

Of _course,_ he did. John was an exhibitionist at heart, Paul knew, and a plunderer, too. If he was to have something, some new experience, some new adventure, he wanted to have all of it – the totality of it -- and he also wanted to show the world what he had, to lift it up high like a trophy, and display it for the world’s admiration.

And that was always the problem. John wanted the world to see what he had, and to comprehend why he thought it was great. He wanted approval, affirmation. He wanted the world to say, _“Yes, we see what you have, what you do, what you love, and aren’t you the lucky lad, then?”_

But so often the world would not cooperate, couldn’t quite catch up to John Lennon, or grasp why he was revealing something that the world didn’t understand or would prefer to not see -- because it wasn’t conventional, or common, or even comprehensible. And John would end up feeling crushed and unreasonably betrayed for having his great and deep passions so soundly misunderstood, or outright rejected. His sense of having cast pearls before swine would grow and he would feel less free, angrier and more closed off, each time it happened.

It was a problem, Paul thought. The week was drawing to an end, and more than anything, he wanted to give John what he wanted so badly. But Paul had his own worries, the first being that his nature was much less recklessly exhibitionistic than his partner’s. Paul had his own ideas about getting by in the world and they didn’t include snogging another fella on a public corner; it was a move that would thrust Paul completely out of his comfort zone. And yet…he was willing to suffer that, a little bit anyway -- just this once, and in Paris, only -- for John’s sake.

But what if it backfired? What if it ended up causing a problem, and ruining everything, ruining the whole glorious week, for both of them? He didn’t know if John could live through that without blaming Paul -- and John would blame Paul because that’s just how John was.

John might never forgive him if their memories were ruined.

Come to that, Paul might never forgive himself.

Then again, John, the hopeless romantic, might never forgive him if he didn’t try…

It was a matter of trust, wasn’t it? In that bedtime moment of revelation there had been a vow, and Paul’s side of it had been that he would hold John’s trust, and his heart, and tonight he was determined to show he could do that -- be everything John could need or want.

It was the birthday gift he had truly intended, all along.

And the moment was fast-approaching. Paul had suggested they take one more turn about the city and pointed them toward the bridge Pont Alexandre III – the most romantic spot in Paris, in his view – ornate and delicate-seeming, the Champs-Élysées to one side and the Eiffel tower to the other, with the moonlit currents of the Seine in between. It would be more crowded than other spots, he knew, but that would only make it mean more, for both of them.

And Paul did love a challenge, as loving John Lennon could amply demonstrate.

The first task, though, was to get John there, to the bridge. On the way John had spied a bench with a couple leaning into each other, and he headed in their direction. but for once Paul objected to indulging John’s new fetish. He pulled him away by the crook of his arm quietly urging his partner forward. “No, love, come with me. I want to show you something and I know you’ll want to see it.”

Paul brought him as close to the center of the bridge as he could, reasoning that no challenge could be greater – how to squeeze a public kiss into a place where people would be coming at going, constantly, from each direction?

Also, if he was being honest with himself, being in the middle of the bridge would make escaping more difficult if his own nerves didn’t hold out.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” He asked John, inviting him to lean against the rail and watch the cloudless sky and its reflection in the water.

“A bit cold, though, innit?” John was still annoyed that he’d been pulled away from another chance to indulge his incipient voyeurism, for which (Paul knew) he would have gladly suffered the evening chill. His hands were shoved deeply into his pockets as though to emphasize his point.  “Too cold to linger, so what did you want to show me?”

“Nothing, really, love. I just wanted to give you your birthday pressie,” Paul smiled.

“Ye already did, you silly git, and I’ve already deposited it back into Paris, as it were.”

“Ugh, John,” Paul winced. “Please, for once don’t be vulgar?”

“Well, you brought it up, sweetheart. Anyway, I don’t need another gift. You’ve no money. You needn’t.”

“I do, though.” Paul hesitated. “I’ve been waiting all week to give it to you, you know.”

He had John’s full attention, now, with a little smile tugging at his lips he said, “Well, aren’t you the coy one? Don’t frown, darlin’ let’s have it, then. Gimmee pressie!”

“Alright, but first, you have to understand…it’s a two-part present. So, you have to behave yourself, John. Be good and be patient.”

“Aw, c’mon, Macca, why must you complicate everything? Good for how long?”

Paul bit his lip even as he smiled. “The rest of the night,” he said decisively. “You have to be good for the rest of the night.”

John rolled his eyes, with a _tsk_ , "The rest of the night," he muttered, but he was smiling back. “I will if you will.”

“Well, you know I will.”

“Don’t get uppity, lad. You _hope_. We both fervently hope.”

Paul laughed out loud and then reached into his pocket, placing the small packet in John’s hand with a lingering touch.

“Well, that’s no burger, anyhow,” John smiled as he unwrapped it and the angel fell into his hand, silver and bright.

“It’s…an angel.” John said, sounding mystified. “Macca, why are you giving me an angel?”

“Because. It’s a guardian angel. I want you to wear it.”

“You joking? I’m not wearin’ a bleedin’ angel on me front, love, and besides, the pin will ruin the leather.”

Paul, insistent, stubborn, bossy Paul, who never backed down from getting what he really wanted, just ignored him and, still smiling, unzipped John’s jacket.

“Even better, then. You’ll wear it on the inside,” he ordered, slipping the pin into the soft fabric lining. John watched in amusement as Paul fussily lined the angel up with precision and closed the minute catch to keep it in place. “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” John marveled.  
  
“You couldn’t stop me, love,” Paul answered. He looked downright smug as he rezipped the jacket. “There.” He placed his hand at the center of John’s chest, and held it there. “Now, you’ve an angel lookin’ after your heart. Guarding it, for me.”

John frowned. “So, you’re giving me a gift, but it’s really for you, Paul, and what you want?”

Paul leaned in close, whispering into John’s ear, “It’s for both of us. It’s what I want for you. An angel, my love, with a lantern. So I can never lose you.”

And just like that, John was undone. He pulled back a little so he could look at Paul, study his face, and Paul gave him the full wattage of his smile and his sparkling eyes. It all worked on John like a one-two punch, straight to the solar plexus. He wasn’t sure he could trust his voice to carry beyond the sudden lump in his throat.

“Jesus, Paul,” he whispered “You Irish Catholic boys…you stagger my heart.”

Paul’s smile grew even bigger. “You like it then?”

“I do now,” John laughed, unzipping to look at the brooch again, with new eyes of appreciation before looking into Paul’s. “I love it. I love you.” In the cover of shadows, he took his partner’s hand, brushing over it with his thumb. “If we head back to our room, I can show you how much while you give me the rest of my pressie!”

Paul shook his head, putting on his best grown-up face. “Afraid we can’t do that, lad, not done here, yet. The rest of your present is right here.”

“What can you give me that would be better, I ask.”

“Just…wait. Be a little bit patient with me, love, yeah? I need a sec.” Paul licked his suddenly dry lips and turned to look out upon the river, watching the light move against the water as he took a breath and pointed.

“What?” John asked, turning.

“Nothing. I just wanted you to turn.”

“Well you are the most maddening, over-managing thing ever the stories wrote, but alright, Princess.”

Paul chuckled at that and stepped closer to John until they were touching, shoulder to hip. He put his hands on the railing and then scraped at his lower lip with his teeth, an anxious habit. Finally, his left hand covering John’s right, he gave a little squeeze, and started to speak.

“Erm…John? Have you ever seen James Cagney kiss a girl?”

Silence.

Paul turned and saw John looking at his feet, a puzzled expression on his face. “I swear, Macca, I haven’t known what to expect from you at all tonight, but that’s certainly one for the books. Do you mean to say that? Want to start again?”

“No, I…yes, I meant it, to say that. I want to say what I want to say,” Paul said, feeling both nervous and amused.

“Only…I thought you wanted to, well…say something sweet-like.”

“Aw, love,” Paul laughed, “I am. I will.” He pressed John’s arm and looked into his eyes. “I _do_. But…I’m traveling somewhere and you need to let me get there my own speed.”

“Alright, then,” said a doubtful sounding John. “Have it your way.”

“Honey, I will,” Paul flirted, “Later. But for now…have you ever seen James Cagney kiss a girl?”

“I am not answering that question. I’ve seen him shove a grapefruit into a bird’s face when annoyed, though. Don’t tempt me.”

“Because it’s interesting what he does,” Paul moved along, ignoring John. “I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want to kiss a girl he’s not married to or whatever, but he does this thing, where he like, lays the corner of his mouth against the corner of the bird’s mouth, and then sort of…rolls his cheek. And he like, smiles, when he does it.”

“I wonder what my new guardian angel thinks of this conversation?” John mused. “Probably puttin’ out her lantern and hiding her face in shame because this part of me present is pitiful, Paul. I’m sorry she has to see it.”

“Anyway, there’s something about it,” Paul rushed on. “When he goes after the girl like that, and he’s talking sweet things to her while he’s at it...well, it’s dead sexy.”

That stopped John. “Dead sexy? A man rolling the corner of his lips against the corner of a bird’s lips and not actually kissing her full on? Oh, Macca, when did you become perverse? I can’t even picture it.”

“You needn’t,” Paul smiled, “I’ll show you.” This was his chance! With a fast final glance over John’s shoulder, he gently took John’s chin between his fingers and, leaning in, pressed the corner of his mouth to the corner of John’s. He lingered for a moment, heard his partner’s sharp gasp, and then he moved, letting his lips pass gently, corner to corner, their cheeks pressing into each other’s.

It was a surprisingly heady moment. Paul could smell the earthy scent that was wholly John’s and he moaned softly and passed over those lips – that little corner of John’s mouth – again. He could feel John’s breath against him as he sighed, and wished they could stay like that, linger in exactly that sort of kiss for the rest of the evening. But his cautious nature over-ruled him. Too many people around, always too many people.

Pulling away he smiled and asked, “You get the picture, now, Johnny? Not so pitiful after all?”

“Do that again,” John whispered, his eyes still closed. “Macca, do that again, right now. You’ve stirred me blood, love.”

Paul shushed him, placing a finger on John’s lips. “Be good. Just…give us a second, love, a little bit of privacy.”

“Nooo,” John whined, daring to nip at Paul’s digit. “Again, Paul, please.”

“He said ‘ _please_ ’!” Paul marveled playfully as he glanced around once more and moved into John, wanting to feel it again, too. “And I am forever pleasing you, my love, aren’t I?” he whispered.  
  
This time he took John’s face between both of his hands, tenderly but possessively, and found that sweet corner of his smile once more.

“I can’t believe it,” John breathed after a moment. “You’re kissing me, or nearly kissing me, right here. In front of – --”

“You see, I knew you’d like this,” Paul murmured against him. “A chance to kiss and still be talking…”

“I want you…”

“Shut up, my love, just for a moment, hush yourself.” Unable to resist, Paul brushed his tongue over John’s lips and moved into a proper kiss, soft and moist but with that touch of coyness they’d seen in these Parisian couples, at once forward and shy. In revenge for his finger, he nipped John's lower lip just a little, and then soothed it with his tongue. When John responded with parted lips and a soft moan Paul broke away a bit, and gulped hugely. They stood there, foreheads pressed together, sighing into each other’s mouths. Paul could feel John’s tension spinning off of him like a well-struck tuning fork.

“John, love?” Paul breathed.

“Yes…Paul?”

“Happy Birthday, sweetheart. And people are coming.”

The couple moved their heads apart, but neither of them jumped to it as they normally might have. There was an ache slowing them down, Paul felt it, deep within his gut, and he knew John felt it too. He was aroused and suddenly in no mood to give a damn about what anyone else thought.

This was Paris, after all, and who really cared whether two anonymous young men might be drinking in each other’s scent of a chilly night? 

It was John who took a step away, putting space between them, gripping the railing and letting out a slow, long breath as he stared into the river. It was as if he’d been reading Paul’s mind. “Alright for me, my sweet, but you shouldn’t stop caring about it. It may keep us alive, someday, when we get known, and all."

“Aye,” Paul breathed out as he looked around, rubbing his face and scratching a little at his hair. “That weren’t bad, though, yeah? That…that little kiss?”

John barked out a laugh. “No, indeed, son. I think we’ll repeat that bit. Add it to our repertoire. We’ll call it ‘The James Cagney’ or ‘The Cagney Snog’ to honor the man and the method.”

“Another Irish Catholic lad who’s staggered your heart.”

“And both named James!” John chuckled as he took Paul’s forearm and squeezed. “No, my love, that can never be. Between Cagney and McCartney I’ve only a place in there for one such, and that would be you.” He grew serious, then, brushing his thumb against Paul’s palm. “Thank you, sweet. Thank you for realizing that what I wanted more than anything in the world tonight was to be able to kiss you a little, hold you a little, out in the open. To be just a little bit soft and free and romantic, like any couple in Paris, just once.”

Paul smiled at him hugely, everything he felt for his love showing up in his expression. “The pleasure was every bit mine, John. _My own one_.”

That face, those ridiculously sparkling eyes, that lovely phrase. They came like three arrows straight into John’s heart, and he groaned as though wounded. “Christ, look at you, you feckin’ black-haired beauty _._ It could only be you, Macca. I know it’s too much syrup, love, but that's what I’ve been thinkin’ it this past hour, so forgive a man his sentimental tongue this one time and let me say it:  It could only ever be you -- a boy with the sun in his eyes, even in moonlight. If ever I’m lost, I could find my way home by the light in you…” He leaned in and took a kiss from Paul, and then another, and then a third, as though sipping at his full lips. “…My angel. My True North. My _home_.”

“Ah, John...” Paul breathed, permitting the kisses until he heard footsteps. It was no good. The bridge was too busy to remain, feeling as they did. They were already being more reckless than they should. He coughed through the rising lump in his throat and practiced a frown at his partner. “You’re killin’ me, Lennon, ya sod.”

“Oh, aye?”

“Oh, aye, is right. I don’t know whether to faint at your feet or just have you right here and now, with the guards and the gargoyles and everyone watchin’.”

John smothered a laugh, and linked his arm with Paul’s, pulling him away from the railing as they began to walk. “As long as you have me somewhere, darlin’, I’m alright with it.”

“Well, let’s head back, then,” Paul murmured in a low voice. “Let’s come undone together, love, see where it brings us.”

They took it slow as they headed back to their lodgings, the urgency of desire taking a back seat to their last opportunity to traipse through the city of Paris, and drink it all in – the air, the mood, the sense of growing oneness it brought to them, minute by sweet minute.

His present now successfully delivered, Paul's stress level was lowered and he was feeling randy but also more relaxed than he'd felt in hours. All unconsciously, he began to hum a tune to himself as he stepped with John.

“What’s that you’ve got there, then,” John asked Paul. “That’s not new?”

“Sorry, I didn't realize...Naw, it’s old. Just an air one of my aunties would sing sometimes when we were all together.”

“It’s pretty. Sing it for me?”

“Well, but the words are old fashioned, you know” Paul objected. “And it’s _Irish_. Let me sing you something Frenchy, yeah? _La Vie en rose_?”

“But it’s my birthday,” John whined, bumping Paul’s shoulder flirtatiously. “You’re supposed to woo me a little, aren’t you? Where’s yer romance, Bunny?”

Paul let out a frustrated laugh at hearing his least-favorite nickname. “You’re so damned queer, my love.”

“For you, my love,” John agreed.

With a sigh and a duck of his head, Paul took John’s hand into his own, “For you, my love,” he echoed as they walked.

“That works, you know,” John said after a moment.

“What works?”

“That call-and-response bit. We should explore that with the band.”

Paul made a show of considering the idea and then leaned near to John’s ear. “Well, I think we need to practice a call-and-response a bit more tonight, then. You know...just to make sure it still works when it gets good 'n loud.”

“You’re so dirty,” John whispered. Raising his voice into a childish plea, he nagged, “Sing me the song, then, Paulie. Make the call so I can respond.”

And so, as they walked, fingers entwined, Paul McCartney wooed John Lennon with an old Irish air sung beneath the starlit blue night of Paris, each line growing softer as their bed drew near.

_“At the mid-hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly_

_To the lone vale we loved, when youth shone warm in thine eye;_

_And I think oft, if spirits can steal through the regions of air_

_To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,_

_And tell me our love is remembered, even in the sky…”_

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
